


Insomnia

by ACometAppears



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied Self-Harm, Insomnia, Insomnia AU, M/M, Medical Horror, Pining Steve, Torture, Violence, by which i mean not actual character death b/c Marvel, pining Bucky, the one where if you can't sleep it's because you're awake in someone else's dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'They say that if you can't sleep, it's because you're awake in someone else's dream. When someone dreams about you, you feel what they feel.'</p><p>Bucky is always happy to go without sleep for Steve. However, during the war, it's often Steve that goes without sleep. </p><p>But their insomnia carries on, even after they presume one another dead. Steve chalks it up to post-traumatic stress. Bucky doesn't even realise anything is wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> another day, another AU based on a tumblr post (this is the post in question, spoilers for this fic abound: http://comraderogers.tumblr.com/post/103761942504/they-say-if-you-cant-sleep-its-because-youre) 
> 
> um. I've got this all written, the rest of it just needs proof-reading (this chapter is probably littered with errors, sorry about that - i'm always re-reading my fics to edit out mistakes, but some stuff slips through the cracks). It's going to be about 10k, and split into four chapters, just to give you an idea of what you're getting yourself in for uwu
> 
> anyway. Enjoy!!

There’s an ancient proverb, which was proved empirically to be true in the early 18th century by natural philosophers, that’s always fascinated Steve Rogers: it states that if you can’t sleep, it’s because you’re awake in someone else’s dream. If someone's dreaming about you, you can't sleep. 

But the proverb doesn’t go far enough: it was discovered in the late 19th century that the dream of the person dreaming of you can have an effect on what you feel. Under laboratory conditions, participants were able to state, with incredible accuracy, what a person dreaming about them was feeling in that dream. 

_Happiness. Distress. Annoyance. Fear. Hatred. Anxiety. Love._ Each one and more can be experienced, in some minor way, by the person being dreamt about – whether they know they’re being dreamt about, or not. 

The first time Steve’s consciously aware that his dreams are causing someone to lose sleep, he’s very small. Waking up to his mother smiling tiredly down at him is a fond memory of Steve’s, though it’s tinted with guilt. He remembers her pushing his hair to one side, her fingertips brushing against his clammy forehead, as she told him, “Shh – it’s okay. You’re safe, Stevie . . . Get some more sleep,” 

He’d been dreaming of her all night. He was worried about her. So, of course, she was awake: she didn’t mind, though. She’d do anything for him. He needed the rest more than her, anyway – he was tiny, and sickly, and she loved the bones of him. 

Steve remembers that, even as a small child, he used to apologise a lot for dreaming of her; he didn’t want her to be tired, and he didn’t want her to suffer, especially not because of him. But he didn’t have many people in his life to dream about, aside from his late father – he didn’t have many friends, given that kids generally don’t like to be seen with the scrawny, sickly kid that gets sat at the back of the class, usually. 

But his mother didn’t mind, ultimately. She always smiled and told him it was alright, and never to be sorry. He couldn’t help it, though, any more than he could help dreaming of her. 

She read a lot of stories to him before he went to sleep: it’s a parenting technique invented centuries ago, to distract a child’s thoughts from their parents, and ensure they get a good night’s sleep; to help the child to dream of something else. It distracted Steve’s mind, and made him dream of things that were not real; people that were not corporeal, and things that would never happen. Dragons and knights of old, soldiers from mythology and war heroes – she would only ever read him stories about the latter if he begged. They reminded them both too much of his father. 

Then, one day, she was gone too. Steve was left alone, with no one to dream about but himself, and the people he’d lost. 

No one but Bucky. Steve always had him, even when he had nothing and no one else. 

-

Bucky remembers lying awake staring at Steve. 

He used to stare at him because he couldn’t sleep, and he knew exactly why: the little punk was dreaming about him. Bucky didn’t know what Steve was dreaming, exactly, but he knew that it was something good; something that made Bucky’s stomach twist, and his heart throb with a familiar warmth. Something to do with Bucky, which made Steve smile in his sleep. Bucky could only daydream about what, specifically, it was. He could only hope. 

Steve would wake up fully rested, and Bucky would smile even as the warmth drained from him, like the sleepy sheen from Steve’s eyes: Steve would usually look at him funny, and ask him if he slept in a voice that told him, _I already know you didn’t. I was dreaming about you all night._

Bucky would just hum. 

This happened almost every time Steve slept over: when they were small, right up through puberty, and into their late teens. Steve would reject the idea of help – even when his Mom died – but he wouldn’t reject Bucky’s offer to sleep over, ever. 

This was because Steve knew that every time Bucky offered, he was essentially saying to Steve that he didn’t mind losing a night of sleep for him: he didn’t mind Steve dreaming of him, preventing him from sleeping. He didn’t mind watching over Steve all night. He didn’t mind one bit, and in fact, he was _offering_. 

Secretly, it's his honour. He thinks nothing could be better than lying awake, listening to Steve breathe, and knowing that he’s okay; that he did good, today – that he made good on a promise he made to Sarah Rogers to protect her son, and a promise he made to himself that he’d never let Steve go. He doesn’t ever want the feeling he gets when Steve dreams of him to slip away. 

So he invites Steve around. Because that feeling – no matter what his teachers say about his slipping grades, or what the foreman says about his drowsiness at work – is better than a good night’s sleep. _Always_. 

-

Steve’s time away from Bucky is hard. He doesn’t get letters, he definitely doesn’t get pictures, and he doesn’t even suffer from insomnia. He tells himself it’s because of the time difference: really, the different time zones are a blessing, meaning both of them can take it in turns to sleep, even if they’re dreaming of each other. But – well, selfishly, and _self-destructively_ as Bucky might put it, Steve finds himself missing the insomnia. It always meant he could be sure he was on Bucky’s mind. Steve wonders if Bucky has forgotten him, with all the new friends he’s made in the army; with all the dames he might come across out there, in the world outside of their Brooklyn apartment. 

Steve feels envious of the companionship between soldiers, amongst other things: he’s wanted to fight in this war since its inception, and the fact that Bucky’s name got called out on the radio one day just made him want to join up more. Sure, he knows it’s dangerous – no one knows that better than him, given his life-long lack of a father – but danger has never perturbed him. His numerous fights with bullies twice his size have always gone some way to evidence that. 

He knows, logically, that in order to get through the training that Colonel Philips and Agent Carter are overseeing him receive, he needs to be well-rested – but he feels hollow when he’s not being dreamt of when he lays down to sleep. It’s not something he’s used to. 

He’s struck, one night before the procedure when he’s awake and unable to sleep because he’s nervous (not because he’s awake in someone else’s dream, to his chagrin – he can always tell the difference, by the presence or absence of a foreign feeling in his chest). 

He lies awake because of the realisation that Bucky must have dreamt of him a lot before he got drafted. Bucky got in trouble for dozing off in the daytime at work frequently, because he’d always put Steve getting a good night’s sleep ahead of himself – but any time he decided he really _really_ needed to have a good day or two at work, Bucky slept, and Steve found himself unable to drift off, warm feelings fluttering in his chest that he didn’t necessarily put there, growing like the flames of a recently-stoked fire. 

In short, they took it in turns to sleep – they had to, because they dreamt of each other so frequently. That never struck Steve as weird, until Bucky left, and he could sleep whenever he wanted. 

But now he misses the sleeplessness. And, as Bucky is captured thousands of miles and a continent away by Hydra, he thinks that he misses it too. 

-

Steve can run on a lot less sleep after the serum is administered to him: he finds this out when, sporadically, he’s completely unable to sleep. But the lack of sleep isn’t what sets him on edge, smudging darkness under his eyes and sealing his mouth tightly shut with thought, even just before he goes on stage. 

He gets all these confusing feelings pressing down on his chest, and rattling around in his head: he’ll experience deathly fear, then euphoria, then the fear again – over the course of a few hours, each will drop down to sit heavy in his stomach, and he knows they’re not his own. They belong to someone else, and he knows – he part-hopes, part-dreads – that person could be Bucky. 

He wonders more and more each day, with the increasing intensity of the feelings he’s experiencing, if Bucky’s okay; if he’s happy, or even remotely safe. So when the Colonel tells him Bucky’s unit was captured and remains behind enemy lines, his worrying increases tenfold. 

Bucky’s captured, and his dreams, while they’re of Steve, are terrifying him (Steve’s not sure what the euphoria is about, or about the content of the dreams, but the fear Bucky feels is enough to make him adamant to do something). Steve is certain, within himself, that that’s what’s happening here. He tells the Colonel that he wants a rescue mission mounted, as soon as he hears that a condolence letter has already been written to Bucky’s family. 

But the Colonel tells Steve the only plan to get the 107th infantry back is to win the war. That’s when he snaps: the hopes, worries and fears he’s experienced concerning his best friend over the past few months spill out for the Colonel and Agent Carter to see:  
“With respect, Sir, I know what it feels like when Barnes dreams of me, and I know he’s alive. I know he’s afraid and he needs help,” 

The Colonel looks up at him sharply; his eyes wander over to Agent Carter, who looks at Steve with a stifled expression of sympathy. When her gaze turns to the Colonel, it hardens, though: she’s clearly on Steve’s side, taking what he says as solid evidence, though it’s only anecdotal – in no way can it be proven to be true. 

“The US military doesn’t launch missions into enemy territory based on ‘feelings’, son,” Philips tells him dismissively, before threatening Agent Carter with disciplinary action that he clearly doesn’t plan on taking. He’s just frustrated, like the rest of them, at the situation they’ve been forced into. 

Steve wishes he could express with words how _strong_ a feeling it was. He could start wars with just this feeling: just the sensation he gets when Bucky’s dreaming of him, just the anxiety he experiences on Bucky’s behalf, just the happiness Bucky inexplicably feels about him in his dreams. 

Agent Carter understands that. So she helps him. 

-

Things make a little more sense, when Steve rescues Bucky: he finds him in a state of delirium, drifting in and out of consciousness, muttering his name, rank and number over and over, with eyes that go between being shut, and totally glazed over. Steve strides towards him as quickly as possible, ignoring his instinct to freeze up at the hideousness of the sight before him. 

Steve wonders if scientists have looked into what defines ‘dreaming’ about someone; what’s enough to prevent someone else from sleeping. He wonders if hallucinations of someone are enough, as his hands hover over Bucky for a moment, while he tries to come to terms with the fact that he, of all people, is the one about to rescue his best friend. He bites his lip, unfastening Bucky’s restraints and trying to catch his attention. 

Bucky looks into his eyes, and smiles without inhibition.  
“Steve,” He breathes, almost breaking off into a peal of laughter, even as his voice cracks and his eyes bulge. Steve wants to spend a little time despairing over what Hydra have done to Bucky, but there’s no time – and if he starts to consider what this war has cost him already, he might not stop; he might stop fighting, and spend the rest of his days marvelling at the price of the freedom he’s fought for, so far. That kind of inaction is just not in his nature: rather than let moral quandaries paralyse him, he prefers to let them fuel him. He can’t stop fighting – not ever. 

“Couldn’t sleep – couldn’t sleep while you were sleepin', Stevie,” Bucky mutters, as Steve helps him up. Steve winces, before smiling weakly.  
“Sorry,” He says sheepishly.  
“Don’t apologise, ya little punk – I’m always happy to go without sleep for you . . . Hey . . . What happened to you?” 

-

When it comes to escaping the camp, Steve’s never been more glad that he’s gone without sleep: it means Bucky’s well-rested enough to steady himself, even as he walks across the narrowest of beams over a lake of fire, surrounded by smoke and gunfire and explosions. Steve watches, concerned but proud, as Bucky makes the jump. He doesn’t know what he’d do, if Bucky had been too tired to make it. He’d never have forgiven himself for not letting Bucky sleep. 

Steve makes the whole jump easily, with his enhancement: even running on very little sleep, he’s got strength enough to leap over the chasm beneath them. He ends up with his hands grabbing onto the railing that Bucky’s hands cling to from the opposite side with a vice-like grip, waiting for Steve to make the dumbest judgement call he’s ever witnessed. 

It pays off, though: Steve’s hands grab onto Bucky’s, and his feet scramble beneath him, gaining purchase on the walkway. Bucky’s smile is delirious, again: Steve feels an echo of the feelings he’s experienced along with Bucky's dreams, these last few weeks, as he sees a tear or two leak from Bucky’s eyes. It’s plain as day, to Steve, that Bucky’s been through hell – and, on top of that, he really, _really_ didn’t think that Steve would make that jump. He thought he’d lost him twice over. 

But Steve keeps hold of one of his hands, even as he climbs over the railing, and tells him,  
“Come on – I’ll explain that later,”  
“Don’t ever do that again,” Bucky says, though his voice is laced with a giddy, breathless quality that tells Steve he’s consumed with awe, right now. Steve can't quite believe the day they're both having either, if he's honest. He tries not to question it, in case it all falls apart under scrutiny.  
“No promises,” Steve says, smiling back at him. 

And, despite the fact he’s not had much sleep at all, he’s ready to fight his way out of there; he’ll face thousands of men, battling through them, to get Bucky to safety. He’s willing to do whatever it takes, to protect Bucky – just like Bucky would, and has done, for him. 

_Til the end of the line._ Steve smiles, even when faced with the smoke and the gunfire and the flames, because they both meant that, when they said it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your support so far!! More soon uwu

It’s a little while before Steve brings up the feelings that have been weighing him down as he lies awake at night, feeling Bucky’s distress, and fear, and happiness, as he dreams of him. He has to wait until they’re alone: after debrief, after photographs have been taken, after Bucky’s made a point of getting everyone to clap for Steve, even before he’s wiped away the blood that’s crusted on his face and neck. 

Nothing’s more important than Steve, Bucky thinks to himself, even as his face falls – privately, he wants to be the only one to recognise Steve’s bravery; his courage, and strength, and his intrinsic goodness, which he’s used every day since Bucky can remember to fight for his ideals, and for justice. Logically, he knows he should love the attention Steve’s getting, given that it’s all positive now: in reality, he laments the fact that Steve might be kept up at night, now, by thousands of people dreaming of him, rather than just Bucky. He can’t go without sleep, to prevent Steve from insomnia, anymore. He can’t protect Steve. 

He’ll still try; he’ll still go without anything Steve needs, if he’s 90 pounds of skin and bones, or 200 pounds of muscle. 

Steve brings it up as they prepare to settle into their bunks, side-by-side: they accepted the offer of their own tent, after all that’s happened to Bucky, and all that Steve’s achieved. A whole lot of the soldiers that were captured with Bucky have gone home, now; he stayed, even though it meant he might be reassigned, far away. He stayed because there was a chance he could remain with Steve. 

That risk has paid off, so far: Steve’s invited Bucky, and some of the other former prisoners of war, to be part of his black-ops team, having proved themselves to him in every way that matters during the rescue. He needs approval, but – being _Captain America_ and all, now – Bucky knows he’ll get it. 

“I can go without sleep for a long time, now,” Steve says conversationally, as he shucks off his suspenders, and begins to unbutton his dress shirt. With a guarded expression, Bucky looks up at him from where he sits on his camp bed, unfastening his boots.  
“Yeah?” He asks, trying to sound casual. It comes out a little strained.  
“Yeah . . . Just as well,” Steve says, smiling. His attempt at humour is half-hearted, but Bucky smiles anyway.  
“Look, if you want me to apologise for dreaming of you so much . . .” He begins, but Steve shakes his head, interrupting:  
“No, it’s – not that. It’s . . . You know how you used to say you’d lie awake while I was dreaming? . . . While I was dreaming about you?” Steve asks gingerly, pausing as he undoes the cuffs of his shirt. He’s had a briefing today, and a whole bunch of meetings – and besides, he wanted to scrub up well for Agent Carter, Bucky reckons. He tries not to think too much about that. 

“I regret telling you that,” Bucky says wistfully, though there’s a humorous edge to his words.  
“I’m serious, Buck,” Steve says.  
“Yeah, me too. You gonna bring it up all the time?” Bucky replies glibly.  
“Bucky-”  
“Would you just drop it? You’re making me sound like some kinda pansy,” He snaps, as if he didn’t let tears shed back at Azzano, when Steve made that impossible jump over the fire beneath them. 

“Bucky,” Steve says sternly, in a way that catches Bucky’s attention once and for all. Steve could always do that, even when he was tiny. Bucky looks him in the eye, finding that – from his position sitting down – he has to crane his neck to meet Steve’s gaze, now. His neck hurts. He sighs. 

“What is it?”  
“When you were . . . Gone,” Steve says, turning away and taking off his dress shirt, leaving him in just his vest. _Even the biggest size is too damn tight for him_ , Bucky observes, letting his eyes wander from Steve’s impossibly broad shoulders, right down to his much smaller waist and the delicate curve of his back. _At least some things haven’t changed_ , he thinks, as he lets his eyes wander downwards, actively suppressing an uncharacteristic blush. Not one of the dames back in Brooklyn could make his cheeks pink like this. Not fully-clothed, anyway. 

“-this horrible feeling, when I couldn’t sleep,” Steve is saying, and Bucky feels bad for not listening properly, and missing some of his words. It’s just that he hasn’t gotten a chance to appreciate Steve as he is now – or, well . . . Mourn the Steve from before the war.  
“You felt what I felt? When I was dreaming?” Bucky asks, his speech straightforward. He clears his throat, and tries not to think too much into how much Steve has changed, and yet how much he’s still the same. At least, not for now.  
“Or hallucinating, I guess,” Steve says quietly. “. . . You were scared,” 

Bucky sighs again, and pulls off his boots. “Sorry I put you through that,” He says in a low voice.  
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Steve says, and Bucky smirks, because that could pretty much be a summary of Steve’s life. “It’s you. You were scared, and – nauseous, and you were worried all the time. And that was just when you were asleep. I can’t . . . I can’t imagine what it was like when you were awake,”  
“Stevie,” Bucky interrupts, “This is starting to sound a lot like one of your apologies. You didn’t declare the war, did ya?”  
“Well – no, but-”  
“And you didn’t call my name out on the radio?”  
“ _No_ ,”  
“Then it ain’t your fault. I’m fine – we should just get some rest. Goodnight, Steve,” Bucky says, lying down and turning away from Steve. He just doesn’t want Steve to see how badly talking about how he felt, during his weeks on that operating table and in those cells, is affecting him. 

There’s a long pause, in which Bucky can hear that Steve is standing stock-still. He shifts slightly, and Bucky has to fight a sniff, not wanting to let Steve see how this talk is getting on top of him. 

“. . . You felt happy, too, sometimes . . . And disappointed,” Steve says quietly. 

Bucky feels frozen solid, for a few moments: his fingers tighten around the pillow beneath his head. 

“. . . Why?” Steve asks.  
“You don’t have to,” Bucky says, before he’s cut off by an involuntary swallow. “You don’t have to ask. You don’t have to know,” He wants to offer Steve a way out from experiencing this burden; wants to keep Steve pure, and good, and unsullied by his problems. He doesn’t deserve them. He deserves to be happy.  
“I want to – I need to. I’m your friend,” Steve points out. 

Bucky shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to collect himself: he hopes his face isn’t red; hopes he can rub his eyes without letting any tears slip from them, too. He turns over, lying on his back and looking up at Steve, who’s still half-dressed and looking down at him; still towering, and standing sentry over him. Bucky laces his fingers together and places them behind his head, as Steve’s seen him do hundreds of times with a cheeky smile on his face. Now, though, his face is placid, expressionless as his voice as he looks down at his own chest, and says:  
“I used to think I was being rescued. I used to think you, uh . . . I used to think they were coming for me. But then it was just _him_ , and – and he got it out of me, what I was dreaming about. I don’t remember telling him about it. But he damn sure made sure I knew that no one was coming for me. He . . . A couple of times, he made me think you – someone had come to rescue me. I thought I’d escaped, but it was bullshit. It wasn’t real, and-”

He bites his lip for a second. Steve shifts slightly, his face growing impossibly more upset and concerned. Bucky regrets opening up like this. 

“. . . And maybe, neither is this,”  
“Buck,” Steve says, and his voice breaks even during that one syllable; he drops like a stone, sitting down beside Bucky.  
“Face it. You’re different – really different, and you were the one to come get me – it’s just like my dreams, but even weirder, cause you’re wider than you used to be tall,” Bucky says, making a weak attempt at humour. 

But Steve isn’t laughing. He’s distressed, it’s plain to see: his face is redder than Bucky’s, now that’s he calmed down and become pretty numb towards this situation. 

“You’re not sure this is real?” Steve says. Bucky just nods. “What would convince you?”  
“. . . I don’t know,” Bucky confesses. Steve bites his lip.  
“What if I slept?”

Bucky blinks, watching Steve’s face; tracing the course of his desperation to make him feel better, as it spreads from his furrowed brow to his lips, which are pressed into a thin line. He worries at his bottom lip, wondering what combination of words he can say to fix this. 

“. . . I usually dream of you. What if I made it so you couldn’t sleep? Just like back at home? Would that help?” Steve asks hopefully. 

Bucky sniffs, and looks up and at Steve’s face: Steve’s hand has been on his leg this whole time, and he didn’t notice. He glances at the hand, and back up to Steve’s face. This could well be a dream, with how close Steve is to him; how tenderly he touches him, and how much he cares. Until the war, they never used to be this outwardly affectionate – he guesses it’s the heightened consequences they face every day that do it. 

But now here Steve is, offering to let Bucky stay up, and stand vigil over him: that’s rare, but not unheard of. Usually, Bucky has to convince Steve to sleep instead of him. _You need it. For your health. I’ll still be here in the morning. I won’t leave. I’m with you til the end of the line, pal._

He thinks to himself that, even if this is a dream, it’s a nice one. Better than the others he’s had recently. 

“. . . I think it would,” Bucky confesses. Steve breaks into a smile, and sniffs loudly, rubbing his red eyes with the hand that isn’t planted firmly on Bucky, reminding him that he’s safe now. Bucky smiles.  
“You know, even dolled up like this, you sure look ugly when you cry,” Bucky says, bringing one hand down to poke at Steve’s ribs.  
“Ow!” Steve says, a surprised peal of laughter bursting from his chest, letting out the tension that’s consciously been weighing on him ever since the long walk home from Azzano. “I’m not . . . ‘Dolled up’. And besides, you’re no oil painting yourself,”  
“I’ve spent weeks on an operating table, what’s your excuse?” Bucky says. Steve winces, and Bucky’s afraid he’s gone too far – but Steve composes himself. He knows that Bucky’s usual defence mechanism involves laughing at himself, and his personal tragedies. This tragedy is just a lot bigger than the ones usually involved in their lives. 

“I’m glad someone still thinks I’m . . . _Average_ , in some way. You oughta see what dames are like around me now. I can’t understand it,” Steve says, shaking his head, and looking genuinely baffled.  
“You gotta be joking,” Bucky says, poking Steve in the ribs again. “Even when you were 90 pounds of nothing, you were never _average_ ,”  
“C’mon. You saw me with that girl you set me up with on that double date, before you left. I’ve never seen a dame less interested in a man,”  
“Maybe it’s not the women you have to worry about,” 

There’s a pause, where Steve’s face freezes: his stomach drops, and he feels as if he’s falling, just for a second. He stops breathing, consciously, as if even the way he _breathes_ will show that he’s been found out. 

Bucky’s mouth snaps shut: he attributes the fact he just said that – as well as the previous confessions – to the sedatives, hallucinogens and various poisons still working their way out of his bloodstream. His eyes are wide, as they fix on Steve’s: they both know it was a mistake, but neither of them have started yelling yet, so there’s a stalemate. 

Bucky’s the one to take care of it.  
“It’s the kids – little bastards will want your autograph everywhere you go,” He continues, reaching out to poke Steve in the ribs again, and sitting up. But Steve’s reflexes are lightning-quick, now: he grabs Bucky’s wrist, as gently as he can, making him stop just short of moving past Steve. 

Steve’s looking into his eyes, still: Bucky likes to think he’s a good liar – half the girls in Brooklyn can attest to that – but he’s been caught red-handed this time, and not even he can lie his way out of it. 

“That’s not what you meant . . . Is it,” Steve says, and he’s not asking. Bucky swallows, his throat seeming to stick to itself. He licks his lips, and shakes his head.  
“No, Stevie,” He says quietly, sounding ashamed. “It wasn’t,” 

The atmosphere has gone from friendly to charged, again – all these heightened emotions are playing havoc with Bucky, and he just wants to sleep. But he wants Steve to sleep more, so he can’t just roll over and ignore this, like he usually would – and _has_ , back in Brooklyn. 

“You saying you’re . . . That you . . . You’re-?”  
“No! . . . Well – I don’t know. I just . . . Dream about you. A lot,” Bucky says, making an absolute mess of this twisted confession. He denies things that are true, to cover himself, even though he knows it’s too late. _Nice one, Sergeant Barnes._  
“That’s okay. I dream about you a lot too,” Steve says, smiling softly. Bucky didn’t think it was possible for anything he did to be soft, anymore, given that his entire physique has been enlarged and strengthened and made brutally more powerful, now. 

But Bucky is still looking at Steve, and Steve’s face is, ultimately, the same as always. It’s unchanged, underneath it all: it’s the same one Bucky dreams about, and that he can’t get out of his head, whether it’s frowning, or laughing, or smiling like he is right now. Watching Bucky lick his lips again. 

It’s the same Steve. It’s the one he dreams about kissing. So he leans forward, and presses his wet lips against Steve’s. 

He expects hesitation. He expects to be pushed back, or even yelled at – he expects Steve to tell him to stop. But Steve just kisses back. 

It’s a few minutes before Bucky’s consciously aware again. He’s been kissing Steve this whole time: his hands are behind Steve’s head, pulling his hair probably slightly too hard. It’s a contrast to Steve, who’s got one surprisingly soft hand against Bucky’s scruffy stubble, and one hand still on Bucky’s leg, stroking it gently with his thumb. Bucky pulls away, and frowns, though he’s still smiling -  
“I . . . Can’t believe this is real,” He says, shaking his head.  
“Oh, I – I’m sorry,” Steve says, afraid of feeding Bucky’s delusion that he’s still dreaming. “I shouldn’t have-”  
“Shut up, Steve,” Bucky mutters, slipping his hands down from the back of Steve’s head to his face; he cups it, feeling that the same sharp cheekbones as he soothed before are underneath that smooth, clean-shaven skin. This is the first time he’s cradled Steve’s face since he last got beat up so bad that Bucky thought his jaw might have been broken. 

“You shut up,” Steve mumbles, but he smirks: when it comes to Bucky, he can’t help but bicker. “You want to let me sleep, then?”  
“Yeah. I’d like that,” Bucky says, smiling and pulling away. He watches Steve stand up, and get ready for a few moments, before going to settle into his own camp bed. But he pauses, before he climbs under the scratchy, standard-issue blanket. 

“. . . Buck?” He asks, turning around and looking at Bucky, who quickly pretends he wasn’t watching his every move like a hawk. “Do you mind if – could I . . . ?” 

Bucky sighs, and stands up: he nods, and he and Steve move almost seamlessly to pull the camp beds together. They climb in, and – just like old times, though neither of them would consciously admit to it or bring it up in conversation – Bucky curls up to Steve’s back, wrapping both arms around him. He listens to his breathing grow deeper; listens to the small noises of sleep that he makes, small syllables and tiny, contented sighs. Bucky smiles into Steve’s hair, and settles in for a long night of birdsong, and the scent of Steve Rogers. He’s sincerely, immeasurably glad that it’s unchanged. 

It’s something he never thought he’d be able to experience, ever again. He tries not to wet Steve’s hair too much with his private, thankful tears, that night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading this!! You're all ace :)

The night after Bucky falls, everything is quiet. It’s pretty much silent. 

Even when Steve’s men talk, they are hushed, communicating in whispers. It’s as if they’re afraid their voices will resonate in such a way that they might cause Steve to crack. He understands that they mean well, but the silence just emphasises the loss of a voice at his side, cracking wise, or offering a comforting, hushed word or two; a hand on his shoulder, a kiss to his cheek. That was only privately, though: the rest of the Commandos can still attest to everything else that their Captain will be missing now. 

Steve doesn’t sleep that night, despite the quiet. He’s not used to settling down in his tent without someone else there. He’s not used to falling asleep to the sound of nothing, rather than to breathing, or even – if he was trying to get Steve to think about something else as he fell asleep, so he’d dream of something other than Bucky, and Bucky could sleep – the sound of Bucky reading the paper to him, or telling him a story. Bucky’s stories always had happy endings: Steve was usually asleep by the time they were over. 

Steve wishes he could sleep now. But he tosses and turns, and he’s sleepless, and full of fear, and dread, and he feels as if it’s killing him. 

He steps out into the darkness, trenchcoat slung over his uniform – he hasn’t gotten changed, too bone-weary to even try – and though it’s dark, the personnel that are still buzzing around their camp notice him easily; they avoid him. They all know what happened to Sergeant Barnes. They all know how close the two of them were. Well – maybe not _exactly_ how close. But no one can stand hanging around the bereaved, he knows from past experience. _No one except Bucky, anyway_. He’s grateful, later on, to Agent Carter, for trying to help; for keeping him company, when no one else would. 

Steve restlessly walks around, feeling lonelier than ever: he feels afraid of what the future holds, for the first time in his living memory. Not since his mother died has he felt this aimless, and full of anxiety over the future: he doesn’t know what he’ll do, without Bucky. He loves Bucky. He doesn’t know how to act without him anymore, and he doesn’t know where he is – where his body is. He feels lost, and he wants to see him. He feels like he’s missing a vital part of him; he misses Bucky, like a limb. 

He doesn’t realise that what he feels is a result of Bucky’s dreams. 

It’s all a result of Bucky’s fevered nightmares. 

-

Bucky wakes, sometimes. He hears the sound of a corpse being dragged through the snow and he hears talking in languages that he couldn’t comprehend even if he tried. He can only partly see, because he is blind with pain. He can only partly hear because he is deaf with panic. His pain consumes him, and he can’t even register that he’s begging, most of the time: even as he loses lucidity, slack-jawed with his eyes rolled back into his head, he can hear them. 

He cannot go to sleep. 

Steve is dreaming of him. 

Steve is still dreaming of him during the operation, and he feels it. He cannot black out and he stays awake, no matter what they give him. They decide to carry on anyway. He knows that much. 

He goes into shock and they ignore it. They stick him with more needles and they replace the blood and they say that some brain damage is okay, they do not need him fully cognizant – they only need him to be able to obey commands, if the doctor’s ambitions are to be realised. 

His only solace is that, when he can’t go to sleep because Steve is dreaming of him, he is filled with euphoria and that same warm, heartening feeling he remembers from sleeping on the couch cushions as kids. Steve’s dreams of them together are usually pleasant, which probably makes them tortuous for Steve – but Bucky can’t think about anything to that degree, as he lies awake on the table, his eyes screwed shut, forcing himself to focus on that warm feeling in his chest as he tries not to crack his teeth with the strength of the clenching of his jaw. They give him a mouth guard and it stops him from even trying to talk, anymore. 

He hopes the warm feeling never dies out, because it’s the only thing keeping him going, and helping him endure this waking nightmare. He’ll fan that flame forever. He’ll nurture it and he won’t forget. 

-

Sometimes Bucky gets to sleep. But he dreams of cuts, and blood, and saws, and cauterisation – he dreams that Steve comes to get him, and he still hopes that he’s coming. All the same, these dreams fill him with a dread that Steve can’t help but feel too. 

Neither of them feel rested for a month. Neither of them are at peace and both of them cling to each other. 

And then Steve puts the plane in the ice, and he gets to sleep for decades. 

-

When Steve becomes embedded in ice, his mind freezes over, but it doesn’t stop. He remains asleep the entire time, but, addled as his brain is, Steve’s dreams end up being all over the place. Sometimes he dreams of Agent Carter, and she lies awake, confused that even though she settled into bed early, she cannot sleep. She chalks it up to her unquiet mind, over-thinking everything yet again. 

Sometimes he dreams of the Howling Commandos, and they find themselves feeling jolly, and wanting to visit and talk to the others, again – they want to relive the camaraderie of the war, just one more time, because that’s exactly what Steve’s dreaming about. 

But the person he dreams about most is Bucky. 

-

Bucky doesn’t remember them taking the mould of his right arm, but the next thing he knows, they have managed to mirror it, and have created something made of metal that is similar to it to fill the gap where his left arm should be. 

They ask him if he is ready to comply. He’s not sure who they are anymore, but they are bad, and they hurt him. There is something wrong with his brain, and he is very tired. He hasn’t slept in three days. His shoulder prevented sleep the first two days, and then the next, the warm feeling was back, and he felt full of tortuous hope, and he wouldn’t pass out no matter how many times they tried to sedate him. This continued for the next couple of months. 

It’s hard to sleep tied-down, anyway. They don’t usually restrain him but this time he tried to fight. Even with one arm, he’s determined, and scrappy; he’s got a mean right hook. The warmth fuels his fighting spirit. _Do it for Steve. Do it for Stevie. That’s it. Keep going. He’ll come for you. He did before. He’ll come._

He tells them Steve will come, and they look at one another with smirks on their faces, even as they push the medication. He feels it take him apart, make him delirious, but he cannot fall asleep – not while the warmth in his chest is still there. 

But whatever the case, he is not ready to comply. The warm feeling keeps up his fighting spirit. Steve is dreaming of him. 

He tells them he will never comply as long as Steve is alive, and dreaming of him. 

The doctor that usually deals with him smiles, and says he will be back later. Bucky spits on the floor at his feet, and takes a hit to the gut for it. Even as they carry on beating him, he thinks that it was worth it. Strangely, unless he’s losing time, he’s always healed in one or two days, anyway – it’s just a shame he can’t grow his arm back. 

He hasn’t seen anyone heal as quickly as he does since Steve got the crap beaten out of him on one of their missions, and he wasn’t quite quick enough to pull the Hydra agents off him. After that, he remembers tracing the bruises on Steve’s body with light touches that reassured both of them that Steve was, in fact, okay; kissed the uneven contours of his broken ribs while he bit his lip to keep quiet, in the privacy of their tent. 

Steve always said it must be because Bucky kissed those injuries better, that they were gone by morning. Bucky always told him not to be so soft, or he’d stop. 

Of course, he’d never stop – not if he was given any say in the matter. He’ll never stop wanting Steve, or give up on him. 

Steve still dreams of him, and Steve is coming to get him. 

-

They bring him a newspaper. He screams. 

-

The operation to repair the damage he does to himself is six hours long, but the doctor assures his staff that it was worth it: luckily, they can get the asset to sleep – often it frightens or perturbs the staff to operate on it while it is awake and voicing its discomfort. 

Physical damage can be repaired. The psychological damage that they have inflicted is irreparable, and will help them immeasurably.  
-

He convinces himself within a day of waking from his operation that they’re lying: how can they not be? Steve can’t be dead; he can’t have crashed the plane, and he can’t have _died_ , because he’s dreaming of Bucky every other day. Bucky can _feel_ that Steve is dreaming of him. There’s no way he can be dead. 

But then they show him the memorials, and the obituaries: he convinces himself that they’re made-up, created by them to break him. They say that Hydra did not create the articles, but he thinks they’re lying. 

But there’s one by Colonel Philips. And there’s one by Peggy Carter. And there’s some sort of celebration going on – it’s still 1945, apparently – and although a lot of the article is redacted, on Hydra’s insistence, including the pictures, Bucky reads the quotes about an absent Captain by his fellow Howling Commandos. They lament that he isn’t there, too. He wants to scream so loud that they hear him and know he’s still alive. 

And he knows. He just _knows_. There’s no way they could fake Peggy’s succinct yet eloquent speech, or the Colonel’s gruff tone. There’s no way they could make up something from each of the Commandos that would be so damn close to their speech patterns. There’s no way.

They mourn his loss and they say that they hope wherever he and Steve are, they’re together, sharing a cold one. They hope they’re still friends – best friends since childhood, so close – up in heaven. 

They tell him the war is still going on, and Steve is dead. 

Everyone thinks he’s dead, and Steve is dead. 

He tells himself he’s been imagining the warmth in his chest: he’s been _deluding_ himself that Steve’s out there dreaming of him. The real reason he can’t sleep must be because of what Zola did to him at Azzano: he’s not awake because he’s talking to, laughing, smiling, and kissing Steve, in one of Steve’s dreams. 

He’s just a memory – a fallen comrade, an absent friend, spared no more than a moment’s thought by the people he’s been hoping will come and get him, alongside Steve. 

No one even knows he’s alive, and no one’s coming. 

Steve isn’t coming because Steve is dead. 

He wants to let go. 

-

Bucky Barnes doesn’t go quietly. He stays awake for long, long periods of time, and he fights against what they try to fit to him; against the brainwashing they try to enforce on him. He fights against the conditioning, and the torture; he endures things no human should be able to. They keep him standing, keep him hungry, keep him bleeding, keep him poisoned – he endures it all, though he doesn’t have anything to fight for, anymore. No one he loves knows he’s alive, and Steve is dead. 

But when they speak about how the world has moved on, and about how they know his sisters are growing older, and about how Steve is _still dead_ , he knows he can’t go on like this. He’s given everything, and he’s still trying to give – _their stories are fake, they’re fake, they’re not real, you’re still awake but they’re not real_ – but it’s not enough. 

Even lying on a prison cell floor, not touched or spoken to by anyone, he feels as if he’s being tortured: his body is on fire, wracked by myoclonic jerks every few seconds, and the warm feeling feels like it’s eating away at his substance; it’s like acid, and heartburn, and the cauterising apparatus he vividly remembers his shoulder being subjected to a thousand times over. 

The space where his arm was throbs. He tries to rip the prosthetic off, but it’s fused on, and the scratching does nothing but make him bleed. He wants to scream but he feels as if his vocal cords are raw, and weeping – _what if they take them away? What if I don’t comply? What will they do to me? I can’t stand this and I can’t disobey. I can’t do this anymore._

Even so, he can’t stop himself from screaming, eventually, and pulling at his over-long hair – _his sisters are getting older, time is passing, he still looks the same in the reflection his blood provides, his hair is longer, things are changing and Steve is still dead_ – until they send someone in to shut him up. 

He doesn’t go quietly. But he does go, eventually. 

-

He lets them show him whatever they want to. They hold his eyes open, but he lets them. It’s easier to comply. Maybe if he complies they’ll take away the burning in his chest. Maybe they’ll let him sleep. 

They ask him who Captain America is, and he says Steve Rogers. That is common knowledge, they say. 

They ask him who Steve Rogers is, and he says _my friend_. 

They carry on until he answers _Captain America_ , and nothing else. 

-

The asset complies with every command every time it is issued, except ‘go to sleep’. That fails approximately 50% of the time. It cannot be explained. 

The Winter Soldier seems disappointed that it cannot provide full compliance. Zola thinks to himself that the asset is, in fact, the perfect soldier. Obedient to the last, and self-loathing when it cannot perform. Vicious, unattached, and eager to please. Except on the matter of sleep. 

Nothing is perfect. 

-

When Steve dreams about Bucky’s death, the Winter Soldier remembers. Those are the worst days. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s catastrophic. 

Because Steve and the Winter Soldier are in different places, this sometimes occurs when the asset is awake, and sometimes when it is asleep, causing it to wake up in distress. 

Hydra cannot account for it, because they believe everyone the asset knew in its previous life to be deceased, or unable to remember him, let alone still be dreaming of him: they chalk this up to a _ghost in the machine_. Mostly it means nothing to them – the stasis chambers do not allow the asset to move, or speak, or protest, if it is awake, and therefore its remembrances are of no consequence – but in the field, it can be problematic. 

The Winter Soldier has fired a shot into the head of a politician somewhere in California. The asset is due for pick-up, and the rendezvous is at 23:00. But in the darkness, the asset finds that a fire begins to burn within him: this happens to him sometimes, and it is what he experiences instead of sleep. It is a pleasant experience, but he cannot say why. He does not understand it. 

But this time, rather than the gentle warmth and euphoria, he feels dread: self-loathing, and panic, and shock, and utter, _complete_ despair. The feeling is so powerful that he falls down to one knee in the middle of the rooftop he used to strategically position himself (the target must fall into the pool, evidence may be destroyed in this way, he will be found by an agent affiliated with Hydra): he hears whisperings in his head. A whisper of a scream is a strange thing, and even stranger for him to hear: the targets usually scream as loudly as possible; they beg, and cry, and they try to run, if they see him coming. They don’t always see him, but they always beg, if they do. 

He hears one particular word, undoubtedly: unobscured, and said in a voice that he can remember entirely; one he would know anywhere. It’s there, it’s in his head, and he can hear it, sure as he can feel the sniper slung heavy onto his back:  
_“Bucky!”_

He hears the screamed word, and his own cry of distress, and he sees and hears the train, and feels the fall and – _and_ -

He whimpers in discomfort, falling down to his second knee, and leaning forward, so he’s face-down. He wants to grind his face into the concrete until there’s nothing left; until the dread is gone, and he’s not forced to remember what this is; _who_ he is.

He doesn’t want to remember. He wants to comply. Why can’t he just comply? He doesn’t want to-

“Steve?” He groans, lifting his head and searching around him. He can hear Steve’s voice now: hear him cry out for him, see his hand reaching towards him – but he’s not there. He’s struck, suddenly, by the idea that Steve’s dreaming of him, which would account for everything. 

Except Steve’s supposed to be dead. 

“You’re not – you’re not-” He whispers to himself, looking all around frantically. He has to say something, to someone. Because Steve’s not dead. He’s still alive, somewhere, and dreaming of him – sure as his names is James Buchanan-

They taser him, then: he didn’t make the rendezvous, and he’s been crouching on a rooftop for ten minutes, groaning and whimpering to himself quietly like a frightened animal. Hydra don’t take well to their blunt instruments malfunctioning. 

Luckily for them, they’ve developed a method of brainwashing that’s much easier than the asset’s original conditioning: the Faustus method is much quicker, and more efficient. The asset is unable to fall asleep during the conditioning, or during being put into stasis, but this is not a concern, for Hydra. As long as it keeps to its next mission, it can still be considered a viable asset. 

These episodes become less frequent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this!! You're all the greatest. This is the last chapter, and I hope you've enjoyed it :)

When Steve is thawed out, he can’t sleep. He attributes this to the weight of the world-shattering revelations he’s experienced, waking up around 70 years in the future after believing he was going to die for his country. 

He lies awake at night for hours thinking about how everything has changed; all the things he left behind, and the people he’ll never see again. He thinks about how Bucky is still dead during the darkest of those hours. 

Very occasionally, he’ll be lying awake, and no matter how hard he tries – he stops just short of trying medication, he doesn’t need it and it won’t help, in his view – he cannot sleep, because there’s a nagging sensation in his chest. It’s as if he’s forgotten something – something _important_. Sometimes this feeling is paired with happiness; sometimes dread. He can’t work out if what he thinks he’s forgotten is a good thing, which gives him hope – something like _home_ , if he has one – or something awful, disappointing, and shameful. 

He doesn’t know which it would be worse to forget. 

He doesn’t realise that he should attribute these feelings to an asset that doesn’t fully know he exists: one that sees his smile flicker in close-up during his stasis dreams, sometimes; one that hears his laugh as if he’s in the room, and yet doesn’t know his name. The asset knows the sound of his voice; his accent, and the blue of his eyes and his uniform. He dreams of them, very occasionally. 

He dreams of something bad that happened to Steve, too. He can’t say what, but it fills his dreams with horror, and pain. He doesn’t realise he’s inflicting these emotions on Steve, too. He doesn’t know that Steve is real, and he doesn’t know that he’s alive. 

He can’t know. 

Their sleep schedules dance around one another, and they think nothing more of it. 

-

In the future, they have drugs specifically designed to make your sleep dreamless, that many people take: they’ve been proven harmless, and they reduce the damage that the economy has always suffered as a result of the workforce coming in ill-rested, having had a partner or family member dream about them the night before, thus preventing them from sleeping. The system works pretty well, because everyone plays their part: estimates Steve’s been told say that 98% of Americans take the drugs on a daily basis, like it’s cod liver oil. 

“Just as well,” Clint says, after Natasha explains the concept to him. “You’d never get to sleep. Think of all those people out there, dreaming of Captain America,” He points out with a mischievous smirk. 

He smiles back weakly. He can go a long, long time without sleep, now, he’s found. He doubts all those people would make any difference. 

That’s when Natasha chips in:  
“Except no, they wouldn’t make a difference – you have to _know_ the person. Not just the idea of them. You can’t dream about someone you’ve never even spoken to. They’d be dreaming of Captain America, not Steve Rogers,” 

They argue semantics for about fifteen minutes, after that: Steve tunes them out, after a little while, not wanting to interrupt and say he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. It reminds him all too much of when he was growing up, sleeping most nights beside Bucky in one of their apartments – and then their joint apartment – he wonders if he’d ever have been able to express to Bucky how he felt about him, if not for those dreams about him; if not for the sleeplessness, and the warm glowing feeling they got in their chests when they dreamt of each other. 

He wonders if, maybe, things would be _easier_ if they’d gotten by without talking about how they felt about one another. He tries not to regret something the rest of the world doesn’t even know about, though. 

Bucky’s gone, just like everything else. But Steve doesn’t dream about anyone else. 

-

Steve thinks it explains his insomnia, when he sees Bucky’s face. Most of his mind shuts off, unable to comprehend what he’s seeing, but some small, logical voice says, _that’s why you can’t sleep. He’s alive and he’s dreaming of you._

_He’s been alive this whole time. You didn’t look for him. He dreams about you. He probably dreams about you coming for him, like last time._

_You let him down._

But then Bucky says, “Who the hell is Bucky?” 

And Steve’s more confused than ever. 

How can Bucky dream about him, if he doesn’t even know him anymore? 

-

Throughout the procedure, the asset feels. He _feels_ – not just pain, and physical sensation, but he feels. He feels some kind of hope, underneath everything; despair, too. He remembers a news article and screaming until he was sick and he couldn’t breathe and his eyes became red from the force of it, just for a split second . . . And then it’s gone.

It’s gone, along with the full face of Steve Rogers, _Steve Rogers who is Captain America, nothing more than a target, not to him_. But the glimpses of that same face remain. He doesn’t connect them to Captain America in his hallucinations and his dreams. He isn’t allowed to sleep between the missions, but he hallucinates after the procedure because of the drugs they give him to maintain him outside of cryo. 

He feels like there is someone next to him. He can feel a heavy weight beside him, and he can feel it breathing, and growing, and changing. He is scared and he is hopeful. He wants to pull it closer but it won’t come nearer to him because it is not real. 

He stares at the blank space and he wonders. They tell him not to scratch at the place where metal fuses to skin. His limbs jerk but he cannot fall asleep. 

Across the city, Steve Rogers feels a deep, heavy sense of unease that isn’t entirely his own settle in his chest. 

-

The thing that brings Bucky back around is what he’s seen in his dreams, and waking hallucinations. 

As he grows closer to Captain America, he notices that the weight of him, right beside him, underneath him, in his grasp, is the same as he’s known in his dreams: he’s held Steve Rogers underneath him like this before. Something tells him it has not just occurred in a dream, but in real life. 

As he watches him speak, he recognises the way Steve Rogers’ lips move, and he knows it like he knows the scars on his shoulder. It’s just as terrifying to him. 

As he listens to his words, he can hear what they would sound like laughed, or shouted, or whispered reverently between two people, _the two of them_ , in an intimate moment. 

_Til the end of the line_. He’s dreamt about that a lot of times. And he’s about to destroy the source of that one piece of solace he’s had for seventy years: the one good thing about being awake but unable to smash the glass of the stasis chamber, of being cold and nauseous and in pain. 

He only couldn’t sleep because Steve was dreaming of him. 

He thinks he can forgive it all, now. He forgives Steve. But he can't forgive Hydra and he cannot forgive himself, when he learns the full extent of what they forced him to forget doing. 

Steve falls, and Bucky – a man who hadn’t entered that room, but now leaves it – jumps after him. 

-

Steve doesn’t sleep properly for a long time after he sees Bucky. But when he does - when he _tries_ , he can’t bring himself to take the drugs to make sure his sleep is dreamless: he wants Bucky to know, wherever he is, that he’s still dreaming of him; he still cares about him, and he wants him to come home. 

He looks up at the moon and he doesn’t know Bucky is doing the same thing. 

-

Bucky sleeps first: he has terrifying dreams of torture, and years spent awake in a stasis chamber, unable to drift away, unable to move, unable to fight or scream. For a few dark hours, he wishes Zola were alive: both so he could kill him personally, and so that he could lie awake at night, experiencing his soldier’s horror at what he did to him. 

A voice in his head that sounds a lot like Steve tells him to let the fact that Zola died of natural causes go. But when he gets his hands on classified information (poorly hidden, Hydra bases are not as secure as they believe they are) that says Steve played some part in destroying the computer that amounted to Zola’s last remains, he guesses that Steve wouldn’t tell him not to want to kill Zola, after all. 

He’d probably try and help. He might even watch. 

He knows that Steve is principled. He didn’t realise, before, that he was willing to bend his principles, only for Bucky – he stopped fighting, just for Bucky. 

Bucky wonders just how close they were, as he settles in to go to sleep again, shaking off the sweating and quivering that he experienced before, during his night terrors. His next set of dreams are sweeter – they’re about Steve giving up on fighting him. 

Bending his principles. Settling in, and drifting off into a peaceful, happy slumber, while Bucky lay vigil behind him. 

-

They’re reunited months later: Bucky was spotted at a train station in Portland, right after Steve came into possession of intel that said there was a still-active Hydra base of operations in that area. Steve knows, immediately, that the two things can’t be a coincidence: every base he’s raided so far has been destroyed by the time he gets there, and he knows who by, even without an indentation in the shape of Bucky’s left fist in walls, and doors, and even ceilings all over the place. 

Steve has been sleeping. He’s supposed, these months, that Bucky has been keeping strange hours; that they’ve been in different time zones, and working on different sleep schedules. He doesn’t know that Bucky’s been avoiding sleep for more than one or two hours at a time, purposefully not resting – both so he can spend more time hunting down Hydra, and so he can ensure that Steve can always sleep. 

Yet again, Steve and Sam arrive at the base, and it’s charred: black, billowing smoke erupts from the doors and windows of the bunker that serves as its above-ground entrance, and there’s rubble and armed bodies strewn about the courtyard, just inside the barbed wire that Sam gives them a lift over. Some of the bodies are still groaning. 

That’s when Steve spots Bucky: face covered in soot – _and war paint?_ – and sombre as he cradles his rifle like a flag, pledging allegiance to his own agenda, Steve thinks, for the first time in seventy years. He surveys the area with the dark, strategizing eyes of a soldier. He’s in combat mode, it’s as plain as day for Steve to see: as he strides through the courtyard, witnessing the destruction he’s caused unflinchingly, he unknowingly grows closer to Steve. Steve can see the dark smudges underneath his eyes, now, as well as the painted-on shadows: he hasn’t been sleeping. 

Steve swallows, and tries to ignore his own sense of guilt: instead, he takes a step forward, and asks,  
“Bucky?” 

Bucky looks up, raising his gun automatically in Steve’s direction: his eyes don’t widen, he doesn’t look perturbed, and for a moment, Steve thinks he might not discriminate between him and any old Hydra goon, even with him wearing his costume. For a sickening moment, Steve considers that he might not _want_ to discriminate. After all, this is all Steve’s fault, when he really gets down to it. 

But he doesn’t shoot. He goes to lower his weapon – but then notices Sam, and raises it again.  
“No – no, no – he’s with me, he’s a friend. And an ally – he’s an ally,” Steve explains quickly, stumbling over his words in his haste. Bucky looks from Steve’s face to Sam, who appears alarmed. He stays very still as Bucky looks him up and down. 

“I tried to kill you,” Bucky states simply.  
“Yeah. A lot of folks have tried,” Sam states, trying to remain neutral, for Steve’s sake.  
“None succeeded,” Bucky says.  
“. . . Obviously, yeah,” Sam replies, with a half-smile. Bucky lowers his weapon, stowing it on his back. His attention turns back to Steve. 

“You look well-rested,” He states. Steve bites his lip.  
“. . . I don’t mean to stop you from sleeping, Buck,”  
“You dream about me a lot,” Bucky states again, mostly lacking any sort of intonation.  
“. . . Yeah. Yeah, I – I could take these pills that would stop that, so you could sleep, but – I always wanted you to know,” He pauses, looking at Sam for a second. Sam nods.  
“Know you were dreaming of me?” Bucky asks.  
“. . . Yeah. And that you were always welcome. You can always come home. You can come home now,”  
“I don’t have a home,” Bucky says. Steve watches him look back with disdain at the base; Sam catches on first.  
“This was never your home – this is where they kept you. A war zone isn’t a home,”  
“There was no war here,” Bucky says quietly, still looking at the mess of bricks he’s created.  
“Not every war is fought with guns,” 

Bucky looks back to Sam, pensive; then he turns his attention back to Steve. 

“You choose good allies,” Bucky tells Steve. “Smart. Useful. Valuable assets,”  
“No – good people. I’m only friends with good people,” Steve says. 

Bucky’s metal fingers twitch: Sam and Steve’s eyes go to them automatically, and both of them tense up visibly, their soldier’s reflexes telling them Bucky is a threat, no matter how calm and collected he is. The destruction all around them is evidence enough of that. 

“. . . You’re my friend,” Steve adds, almost conversationally.  
“I’m not a good person,”  
“You can be,” Steve presses.  
“I tried to hurt you,” Bucky points out.  
“I didn’t come for you – and I tried to hurt you back. Til I realised who you were. So we’re about even,” Steve counters. 

Bucky nods. He shifts, moving his weight from one foot to another. Steve watches him carefully – he feels Sam’s hand on his shoulder, and when he looks around, Sam makes an expression that tells him to step closer. _I’ll cover you_. 

He’s never been more grateful for Sam than he is now: he wishes he didn’t have to drag him into this drama – he’s got his own life, his own battles, his own issues to deal with – but whenever he tries to apologise, Sam waves him away. _Ain’t nobody got baggage like a pair of 90-year-old super-soldiers – it’s worth it, to fight alongside Captain America._ What he actually means is, _to fight alongside Steve_. 

This is what friends are for, apparently: Steve can’t remember ever having to do this with the Howling Commandos, but something tells him they’d have helped him through this, and to the ends of the Earth, too. 

Before that . . . There was just Bucky, really. And that’s the crux of the matter. 

He steps closer: Bucky looks up at his face, and the fact he has to peer upwards to look into Steve’s eyes is still novel, because of the short amount of time they got to spend together after Steve was given the serum. It's fresh and still kind of terrifying, even seventy years later. 

“. . . What’s up?” Steve asks cautiously. Bucky finds one side of his mouth pulling up, hearing that: it’s modern language, and Steve obviously doesn’t know how to use it that well. It doesn’t seem appropriate, right now – not given the sheer amount of problems Bucky’s facing; the amount of bullshit circulating in his brain, and the problems that his blood is laced with, permeating his remaining limbs and forcing him to claim vengeance; drawing him to it like a magnet. He can’t rest until it’s done, he thinks. 

“. . . I’m just tired, is all,” Bucky says, and his voice is barely a whisper, as his eyes travel down to the star on Steve’s chest. 

Steve bites his lip, and takes a chance: his brings up his hands slowly, so he’s sure Bucky can see them. Gloved though they are, he makes sure the skin of his fingers is placed against Bucky’s stubble, as he cups his face. Bucky looks at the hands, and back up at Steve’s face. 

“You can sleep, later. I’ll go without . . . I’ll watch you, if you want,”  
“. . . That’s not the way it used to be,” Bucky recalls. Steve smiles sadly.  
“Nothing is. But you can stand down now,” 

Bucky takes a deep breath, and looks into Steve's eyes: he sees that Steve is still as strong as before, though he’s undoubtedly weighed down by all he’s done; he’s strong enough to bear the weight of it, and to try and help Bucky with his recovery; with his rehabilitation. 

Steve’s always been stronger than Bucky – even when they were just kids, and Steve was tiny – and he never knew when to back away from a fight. So if Steve’s telling him to stand down . . . It really is time. He thinks they’re strong enough to get through this. 

So maybe they are. 

Bucky’s the one to sleep that night. Steve stands outside his door all night. 

-

It’s a week before Bucky invites Steve into his room. It’s not a cell: throughout the day, he leaves. He goes to therapy, or he goes out for a run, or for exercise, or to practise shooting (he can't allow his edge to dull, if he wants to protect Steve, now). But sometimes he just disappears, until night-time, and Steve doesn’t know where. Not until Bucky invites him, anyway. 

They walk, and while they're sometimes silent, they talk a lot – there’s a lot to discuss – and they avoid heavily-populated areas. Steve knows there are a lot of repercussions coming, for both of them, in the future: Bucky doesn’t seem to mind; even thinks he deserves it, to Steve's dismay. 

But he tells Steve he’ll withstand it all. Just as long as Steve can lie beside him, and they can take it in turns to sleep. 

Sometimes Bucky sleeps, after kissing Steve goodnight and turning away from him. Sometimes Steve sleeps, with both of Bucky’s arms wrapped around him, his metal arm warming gradually against Steve’s skin (which isn't warm from running a fever, like it frequently was during their childhood, but from his quick metabolism). Sometimes both of them sleep, having taken pills to ensure their sleep is dreamless; or having had other things to think about that day, meaning they don’t end up dreaming of each other. 

And sometimes, occasionally, they don’t sleep at all: both of them go without, instead opting to huddle close on the roof, and talk about the past, and the few stars that the murky, polluted New York city sky will show to them. They’re grateful for each and every one. 

Some things never change. But some do, and for the better. 

Still, neither of them would give up being in the other’s dream. Not for all the sleep the world could offer them.


End file.
